Red Sox Ring

This morning, I had breakfast with Theo Epstein, general manager of the Boston Red Sox, and Carl Beane, the "voice of Fenway Park." It was a $125-a-plate event for most, but at least one journalist in the room was being paid to attend....

Although the YMCA was kicking off its annual campaign with this breakfast, it had already raised just over half of its goal of $300K. An auction of Red Sox memorabilia and a very special bottle of wine raised several thousand more dollars. Epstein, who with his brother runs a foundation for kids (The Foundation To Be Named Later), really got in the spirit after a guitar signed by him netted $1500. He spontaneously offered two tickets in his box for any game...an opportunity to talk baseball with him, feast on gourmet food, and of course see the game from the best spot in the stadium. When someone bid $3750 for the tickets, he magnanimously offered two more if anyone would match the bid. Someone did.

Well, that was exciting. But for me, the highlight of the event was trying on Epstein's World Series ring. I'm not really a baseball fan, but I am a gold, ruby, and diamond fan. And this piece of bling has dozens of precious stones. You don't need to have a lovely hand....all eyes go to the ring.

Theatro Vida Audition

I consider myself a fairly cultured person. I like opera and ballet and chamber music, gallery openings and poetry readings, 19th-century French novels and foreign films in black and white with subtitles. But one thing I've never liked is live theater. This despite the fact that I have a Master's degree in English with a concentration in Renaissance literature. ("Renaissance" in England means "Shakespeare." "Shakespeare" means "plays.") I don't much like watching what's going on onstage, and even less do I like getting up on the stage myself.

I went to the audition for Teatro Vida because I was assigned to go. I needed an interview, but I wasn't especially interested in the subject. And that was o.k. I'm a professional; I can make something sound fascinating if I need to, even if I personally don't give a hoot about it.

The audition had already begun when I arrived, so I couldn't take the director, Magdalena Gomez, aside for an interview, but that didn't matter. Interviews can easily be done on the telephone. I was more interested in observing, being a fly on the wall. Elmore Leonard on a Detroit street corner, seemingly absorbed in lighting a cigarette, while his steel trap of a mind locks in every detail, every scrap of dialog of the hookers and hoodlums around him.

One little problem with that. Magdalena, her assistant for the evening told me, wouldn't let anyone in the room except participants. Whatever vibe she had going on inside would be disrupted by a person not caught up in it. If I wanted to get a peek, I would have to participate, too.

Well, that's my nightmare, but in the name of good reportage, in I went. Everyone marched, and I marched; everyone froze, and I froze. When she assigned numbers and announced that anyone whose number was called would have to fall backwards, pretending to faint, I almost balked. With my back in almost constant pain since my accident, surely I qualified for an exemption from this exercise. What if nobody caught me? But then I thought, with this many people, why make waves? What are the chances she'll call out "33?"

March, march, march,14! March, march, march, 33! Damn! Obediently I fell, like the sheep we so easily become when in a group, no matter how little real power is wielded by the leader. And three strong young men did indeed catch me.

Magdalena was something to see. Slight, but with the bearing of a dancer, she had complete control of the room. Dozens of teenagers sat quietly in a circle, listened intently, contributed enthusiastically when called. No rolled eyes or wandering gazes, no cell phones or Ipods, no restless movements.

At one point, a young woman leaned over to a friend and whispered a few words in her ear. Magdalena instantly stopped talking. Permiso, she said. Excuse me, replied the flustered girl. No, excuse me, replied Magdalena. I interrupted you. Please let me know when you are finished, so I can continue. Dead silence, except for the sound of the girl blushing. And needless to say, no talking out of turn after that.

Hmmm....I think I want some of that. Of whatever Magdalena's dishing. Do I have to become a performance artist to be able to command a room in similar fashion? I don't know. I'll have to get to know Magdalena a little better to find out.

Craniosacral Therapy

Tom Bianco is a licensed physical therapist whom I've interviewed on two separate occasions. Although he's in business for himself, he's got an office inside the YMCA ,very close to where I live. About his work I've heard nothing but good, so after my automobile accident I decided to pay him a visit. I've been receiving therapy twice a week at his clinic, Alternatives in Physical Therapy, since sometime in December.

After an evaluation, Tom gave me gentle exercises to do at home, and assigned me to his assistant, Mike, for twice-weekly courses of craniosacral therapy. This basically consists of lying on a table while Mike applies very light pressure, something like five grams, which is practically nothing, to my head and sometimes to my lower back. According to Tom, the function of the therapist is to help the body release restrictions – which it has been unable to overcome on its own – that inhibit the body’s normal, self-correcting tendencies.

Sounds a little out there. But I'm not a doctor or a therapist. All I know is, before the accident I was exercising, swimming, dancing, and so on and on. Now I'm an achy mess. If he can get me back to where I was before, I'll be a believer.

Lunch With Vernon Hill

For almost two and a half years now, I've been writing a weekly column in Springfield's The Republican newspaper. It's published in the Wednesday pull-out section, which has several other regular features besides. Mine's about the YMCA. I don't work for the newspaper; I'm 100% freelance.

The "Plus" section of the paper contains articles and columns which are local in nature. It varies somewhat in content from edition to edition. If I profile a person who lives in Chicopee, that column might appear on the front page of the Chicopee edition, but be buried in the middle of other editions. Or not even appear at all in, say, the Metro West edition.

I've got a new editor for this column, and I like him very much. Vernon Hill is experienced and he's professional, having worked in different areas at The Republican for years. Best of all, he has a willingness to communicate. That's the elusive quality I'm always looking for in an editor. You turn something in; he shoots back a "Thanks--looks good!" You ask a question; he immediately emails an answer. You query him with an idea; he promptly lets you know if he's interested or not.

My colleagues at the Y invited Vernon Hill to lunch today, and asked me to join them. The Republican's offices and the Y are only two blocks apart, but I don't think Vernon had ever been inside our facility. He got a tour, a nice lunch, and an opportunity to brainstorm a bit with us. We learned something about the issues and constraints he has to deal with in producing the weekly editions, and he heard our concerns as well.

I'm pretty happy these days because I have a picture, a byline, and photo credit. My articles are never cut, and the paper has stopped treating them like news items and editing them rigorously according to AP style. (My pet peeve was seeing all my verbs changed to past tense, when I had purposely used the present tense to lend immediacy to a conversation. Tom Shea gets away with it! Now I do, too. Thanks, Vernon!) I didn't bother to mention that they had massacred the title I was asked to design for the column. That was before Vernon's tenure, and I didn't want to appear greedy.

For the past year I've been profiling people associated with the Y, which everybody seems to think is a good idea. People like to read about other people, even though it's the same message buried in there about the mission of the YMCA. Apparently, though, that tactic is somewhat limiting our coverage. So we've decided to focus in the future more on issues, like, say, prevention of gang violence, which may be seen by those in charge of laying out the editions as equally relevant to all neighborhoods.

A while back, one of my resolutions was to be syndicated. At that point, I didn't even have anything to syndicate! This column, while too locally focused to be a candidate for syndication, has been reprinted with fair frequency (mostly without permission). So it's a step in the right direction. It's been a small but steady source of income, good practice in meeting deadlines for a person whose middle name is "procrastination," and an excuse to ask shameless questions of loads of people I would not otherwise have license to badger. Of course, I can't shoot my mouth off exactly the way I'd sometimes like. But for that, there's always the blog.

Tzedakeh Is Its Own Reward

Today I walked downtown to interview Atty. Philip Hendel for my next newspaper column. Atty. Hendel is an übercool guy who could probably well afford to retire at this point in his life. In fact, he's still very active in his practice, in various legal associations, and in the community. He's got a beautiful office on State St. in one of those nice old buildings that's solid marble everywhere inside, with heavy doors and lots of polished brass trim. Very impressive and lawyerly.

Atty. Hendel is the man who, about fifteen years ago, rescued the YMCA from near financial ruin, and is responsible in large measure for its excellent fiscal health to this day. His firm, Hendel and Collins, P.C., specializes in insolvency cases, and is well-known for its ability to get organizations, particularly non-profits, back on track without resorting to bankruptcy. He used his considerable knowledge, experience, and clout to galvanize the entire YMCA community and the community at large. Lots of changes were made in the way the Y does business, and lots of donations poured in. In the process, Atty. Hendel forged strong friendships with members of the board and administration of the Y, and became committed to the YMCA mission himself.

Most successful people of Atty. Hendel's caliber are generous, even philanthropic. Some just write a big check to the United Way every year and get it over with. Others like to target their benificence somewhat. Atty. and Mrs. Hendel particularly like to enrich the lives of little children, giving them experiences which will make a lasting impression on their young minds.

Although the Hendels often act anonymously, the preschoolers at the YMCA's Magic Years Daycare have figured out who's responsible for all those trips to the dinosaur exhibit at the museum or to see the Muppets on Ice. Last month, a delegation of four and five-year-olds paid a surprise visit to the venerable offices, singing songs and bearing gifts. One of the gifts they brought was a large poster they had made themselves, edged with jigsaw puzzle pieces, depicting several smiling youngsters thanking him for his many years of generosity.

Philip Hendel was overcome by this display of loyalty and affection. He had the poster framed and prominently displayed on his wall. And I know just how he feels. All kids are cute, but those kids over at Magic Years are somehow extra, extra cute. Tzedakeh is its own reward, of course. But having all that adorableness directed straight at you for something you did has got to be sweet.

Y Speed on Ice

Tonight I walked a couple of blocks to the MassMutual Center to watch the Springfield Falcons play the Hartford Wolf Pack. (That's professional hockey, for those who don't know.) It was YMCA Night at the Falcons, and I was there to gather information for an article.

YMCA board members gathered in the V.I.P. lounge, while the new memebership director manned a table of informational material about the Y. A preschool teacher from the Scantic Valley Y sang the national anthem, and Springfield YMCA President James Morton dropped the ceremonial puck. During intermission, a couple of different Y groups were on the ice.

Here's the Y Speed track team in their spiffy red, black and white tracksuits out on the ice with Screech, the Falcons mascot. Back in the stands after their ten minutes in the limelight, the kids watched the action attentively, although none of them that I talked to had ever seen a game before. I threw out the question, "How is hockey like track?" and one young woman immediately shot back, "You go fast!"

The Y Speed team is brand new this year. It's the brainchild of CEO James Morton, himself a runner. A number of the kids are new to track, but they're showing lots of promise. They're already going to meets in Boston, Albany, and Northampton, competing mostly against college runners (one of the Y kids is nine years old). Lucky for the Falcons that they don't have to compete against Y Speed. They're going to be a tough team to beat.

Wreck

Last month I was pulling up to a red light at the end of Route 391 in Holyoke, almost rolling to a stop, when a car came past at around 80 miles per hour, no brakes, sparks flying from the wheels. It smashed into the front corner of my car, knocking me into the vehicle ahead of me, then continued through the intersection, plowing into a car crossing the intersection and taking out a streetlight in the process. The driver got a ticket, and even her insurance company admitted that the four-car accident was entirely her fault.

It was immediately obvious that the car I had been driving (no, it wasn't my antique Mercedes) was a total loss. Fender, bumper, door, hood, light, wheel, axle, and transmission all damaged. Less obvious what the damage might have been to me.

I was wearing a seat belt, and didn't have a scratch on me. Once I had dealt with having the car towed, however, I went to the emergency room to be checked out. The doctor poked me, asked me a few questions, and gave me a Motrin. Also a referral to a physical therapist I could use if I developed any symptoms down the road.

A week went by, then two, then three. By the first week of December, I was so sore and stiff that I decided to avail myself of the therapy offered to me. I decided to try Tom Bianco, about whom I'd written two articles. He calls his business "Alternatives in Physical Therapy." Although he's a registered P.T., he does things a little differently than most. So many people I'd interviewed for those articles raved about him, I was curious to see for myself. One thing I like is that he runs his operation out of the YMCA, to which I can easily walk.

Five years ago, I was in fabulous shape, bounding out of bed every morning like a four-year-old. Then I was in a head-on collision which landed me in a chiropractor's office and finally in traditional physical therapy. Now with this recent accident comes another setback. Let's see what the combined forces of Tom Bianco and the YMCA can do.

Pandora Martini

This evening I had the pleasant duty of dropping by Max's Tavern for a martini. As a freelance writer, I can do most of my work from home. When I do have to leave the house, it's surprisingly often for something like a dinner party, a couple of nights at the beach, or--in this case--a happy hour. (Thank you, Miss King, Mrs. Morrill, Mr. Black, for teaching me how to write!)

The occasion was the kickoff of an interesting fundraiser from the fertile brain of Andrea Luppi, director of community relations at the YMCA. From tonight until December 31, $250 will get you a Pandora martini at Max's. A Pandora martini is Stoli Elite vodka, Chambord, grapefruit juice and a sprig of mint, garnished with a lemon twist and a sterling silver Pandora bracelet. The bracelet's strung with five charms: a letter "Y," a wrapped present, a heart, and two colored Murano glass beads. $100 of the gift is a tax-deductible contribution to the Springfield YMCA.

This one's a no-brainer, as far as I'm concerned. Lots of men are going to buy jewelry for women during the holiday season anyway. This is for a good cause, plus it's beautiful. The lady can sport what is probably the hottest jewelry fashion these days, and everyone will know that she--or the donor anyway--has a good heart. Then she can start collecting charms, customizing the bracelet however she wants. Birthdays, Valentine's Day, anniversaries become a snap; just buy her a new charm to add to her bracelet.

That bracelet on the left stuffed with charms is $770 worth of Pandora jewelry from Hannoush. Bracelets and charms come in gold as well, some gem-encrusted, so it's possible to spend waay more than that. Right now there are about 300 different charms, with new designs being added all the time.

Pandora is a Dutch company. Everything in their line is designed in Copenhagen. It's been around for awhile in Europe, but only available here for the last three years or so. The charms are unique in that they're threaded on the bracelet, rather than dangling from it by a little soldered link.

Tonight was the kickoff, but nobody was expecting actually to sell any jewelry. Andrea and CEO James Morton were tickled pink when six were sold on the spot. Let's see how it goes as the shopping season gets more frantic. Max's only has to give away a few martinis. Hannoush gives a slight cut on the bracelets, but draws all the repeat business. The Y gets money to serve the underserved. Women get beautiful jewelry, and the givers get heartfelt thanks. It's a win-win-win-win-win situation.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Wednesday is the day my column appears in Springfield's daily newspaper, The Republican. The idea for this column was conceived a year and a half ago by board members of the YMCA. Rather than just run ads encouraging people to join the Y, the board thought to submit articles which would promote awareness of the organization's mission. It didn't hurt that one of the board members happened to be an editor at The Republican (since promoted to Managing Editor). She offered to run the articles in her section every week if the Y could produce them.

Yours truly was offered a nominal fee to write the column. So for a year and a half, I have been contributing articles about every YMCA program and event the board can think of. And for a year and a half, I have been patiently explaining to people that I am not "the reporter from The Republican." I work for the YMCA, not the paper.

And since I don't work for the paper, my articles have been treated for a year and a half like press releases. Although they are formatted like a column, with the familiar Y logo in a box, my repeated requests for a byline have been ignored. Instead, the line "submitted on behalf of the YMCA by Cicily Corbett" appears at the bottom, as for a press release.

Until this week. I'm not sure what happened in the offices of The Republican, but suddenly I've got, not only a byline, but a headshot. For a freelancer, after a year and a half, finally some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Ryan's Riverfront

Today I wrote my first-ever letter to the editor of a newspaper. Yet another article had appeared in The Republican gushing over yet another shortsighted and pointless project. I can understand the tendency of politicians, especially Mayor Charles "If It's Free, It Must Be Fantastic" Ryan, to paint an unrelievedly rosy picture of the hot project of the hour. But I see red when a fellow journalist doesn't objectively lay out all sides of an issue, and most especially when an article infers that everybody's unanimous on a subject. Don't presume to speak for me, dammit!

Here's the text of my letter:

The proposed LA Fitness-Hollywood Barn in the former Basketball Hall of Fame is good news for the "Springfield is so desperate it should be grateful for any developer's interest" crowd. It certainly is not an ideal reuse for the property, however, adding nothing special to the mix. A downtown fitness center can only draw business away from the YMCA, which has just shown its continued commitment to Springfield after over 150 years by completely renovating its Fitness Center.

The Y does more than any other agency in the city to address not only wellness but social problems such as delinquency, gang violence, child care for working mothers, obesity, homelessness, etc. A sensitive, long-range ideal use for the riverfront property would draw on Springfield's strengths, which are its history and its diversity. How about a museum of women's basketball history? Or anything else that would draw people from outside the region, as well as within, while showcasing our heritage?

Ryan should be ashamed of himself. What's so great about having the words "Hollywood" and "L.A." splashed in huge letters alongside the interstate for all to see as they drive through town? What does that say about our image of ourselves as a New England city? Ryan has zero vision for the future. He's made it amply clear in speeches that I've been lucky enough to listen to that we're in deep financial shit and can't expect anyone to want to invest in us. Every time a group does want to put money down on real estate, he's wetting himself with excitement. But where's the master plan? His legacy to the city is a pathetic mishmash of parking lots, razed buildings, and random enterprises.

Now he's putting his stamp of approval on a plan for our precious riverfront. Do we get a Baltimore-style Inner Harbor, a San Antonio-style Riverwalk, or a Boston-style Quincy Market or Rowe's Wharf? Nope. We get a Hollywood Barn and an L. A. Fitness. Woo-hoo!

RAD

I've just finished an article on RAD classes in Wilbraham. RAD (Rape Assault Defense) is a comprehensive self-defense course for women. The course teaches awareness, prevention, risk reduction and avoidance of dangerous situations, usually with hands-on training. A typical class lasts for five sessions and costs about $5 per session.

Classes are held in community centers, YMCAs, on college campuses, and so on. My state alone has dozens of locations. Classes are also offered for children and for men. In Wilbraham, like most places, the course is conducted by police officers.

The first class is usually just discussion. Then it gets interesting. The next three classes involve practicing various self-defense strategies. The last class is the kicker. Instructors dress up in special RAD-man suits, designed to withstand moderate impact. The ladies are told they can give it all they've got. And apparently many of them do.

There are always some women who have been in actual bad situations before--abuse, assault, rape. It's easy for an experienced instructor to spot these victims, even if they don't speak up. Usually they find the last class difficult, if not downright traumatizing. The Wilbraham group always has a female officer on hand that night for support. Women are encouraged to work through their fear: otherwise, the aggressor has won.

RAD classes attract everybody from young girls accompanied by their mothers to elderly women living alone. They've got one thing in common besides their gender. After five weeks together, you wouldn't want to meet any one of them in a dark alley.